Chance Encounters
by Consulting Time Heir
Summary: An odd yet comforting acquaintance starts between Harry Potter and a Slytherin outcast one year below him: Sherlock Holmes. No slash, kid!lock, should be canon-compliant. Rated T just to be safe, mentions of child abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**Chance Encounters**

**Summary: An odd yet comforting acquaintance starts between Harry Potter and a Slytherin outcast one year below him: Sherlock Holmes.**

**A/N: So, this could become a multi-chapter fic if people decide they like it. Oh, my God, I'm actually already planning out following chapters. Now I just hope people will actually want them.**

**Spoilers for pretty much everything that exists now, if I ever finish this. HP spoilers for books 1 to 7, and Sherlock spoilers for everything until _The Reichenbach Fall_. In this chapter, though, only spoilers for the PS and CoS.**

**Warnings: mentions of child abuse and bullying.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise. I do own my Bunny Of Plot. I think he hates me.**

1.

Harry Potter sat upon the Astronomy Tower of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was a quiet place, and none of the teacher ever bothered to check there for students during the day. Over the past month, it had become one of Harry's favourite places in the castle.

One month. That was how long ago the rumours had started in earnest. One month ago, Harry had showed the entire school that he could talk to snakes. He had saved a fellow student's life, but no one remembered that part. No one remembered that the conjured snake had laid down on the floor after Harry had told it off. No one realised that Harry would be the last to go around attacking muggleborns. No one ever really _thought!_

As such, Harry found solace in the isolation of the Astronomy Tower. He wouldn't be missed for a while longer; Hermione would be doing homework, of course, and Ron was probably sitting next to her in the library pretending to do homework, while secretly reading a Quidditch magazine hidden in his Potions book. People wouldn't really talk to them anymore due to their association with Harry, but they refused to abandon him. Still, sometimes he just needed some peace and quiet.

Harry stared across the Hogwarts grounds, letting his mind wander. There didn't seem to be anything he could do about his situation, other than wait it out. In the meantime he would try to defend himself as well as he could; just because arguing hadn't had any results yet didn't mean he could just lie down and take it! He'd done that often enough with his relatives in the past.

Suddenly he heard footsteps coming up the staircase. He cursed himself for leaving his invisibility cloak behind and grabbed his wand, just in case. When he saw who had come up, he wasn't sure if he should be relieved or wary.

The good news was that the boy, carrying a book and his wand, was a first year. He couldn't be older than Harry, and if he'd been a second year, Harry would have recognised him. The bad news was that the boy was a Slytherin.

It was quiet for a few seconds. Both boys had their wands drawn, neither fired a spell. Harry suddenly realised that, with his back to the window, he was at a dangerous tactical disadvantage. If he blew the other boy backwards, he'd fall down the stairs. If Harry was thrown backwards, he'd plummet to his death outside. He couldn't help but think this typical, and had to restrain himself not to roll his eyes.

Finally the other boy huffed, sat down against the wall, opened the book he'd been holding and started to read. Harry noticed he never put away his wand, but then, who would? He let his arm drop and, after a few seconds of indecisiveness, sat down against the wall a few feet away from the boy, and resumed his staring outside.

About an hour later, he heard a book snap shut behind him. When he looked, he saw the Slytherin sitting cross-legged, hands under his chin, fingers interlaced, staring back at him.

Harry blinked. "Uhm..."

The other boy barely seemed to notice he'd been discovered. Harry decided that, if he was being rudely stared at, he might as well stare back. The boy was skinny, his hair was curly, as black as Harry's, and appeared almost as untameable. His eyes were a pale grey-blue, and Harry got the impression it was the kind of colour that changes with the light. Prominent cheekbones stood out sharply from the boy's slightly too-thin face. It was eerily similar to staring in the mirror, except when Harry looked in the mirror he never consciously thought: '_That kid needs to eat more._'

"My eating habits are just fine, thank you," the boy snapped. "So you can stop rubbing your stomach and licking your lips now, I'm trying to figure you out." Surprised, Harry looked back carefully. He'd licked his lips maybe twice since noticing the Slytherin's skinny frame, more often than usual, but not out of the ordinary enough to stand out. And his hand had indeed moved to his stomach, which was reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast, but it was lying almost completely still. Tiny observations, and it was like the boy had read his thoughts. Just who was this kid? And, hold on...

"What do you mean, trying to figure me out?" The Slytherin grimaced.

"You'd be amazed how hard it is to observe you without being noticed, Potter." Ah, so the boy did know who he was. Harry had started to wonder. "You'd think, you're the local celebrity," Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste, "Everyone would be staring at you, wouldn't they? But as it turns out, as soon as someone as much as glances in your direction, people start _giving their opinion_. It's awful, I try to get an idea about you, and immediately people descend from all sides, either to gush over how amazing you are, or to tell me to 'Leave him alone, you filthy Slytherin scum!' if they notice the colour of my tie! And when I get back to the common room, the older Slytherins start making _their_ opinion known. You probably know Draco Malfoy hates you, but were you aware the same goes for Tracy Davies? She's just more vocal among _her own_. Though lately I don't need to go to the Slytherin common room anymore to hear slander about you." Harry remained mostly unsurprised, though he felt his eyebrows raise at the Tracy Davies comment. She'd always appeared moderately civil in the past. Then he realised what the other boy was actually telling him.

"Wait, you're... actually trying to get accurate information about me, rather than relying on the rumour mill?" He asked hopefully. The boy rolled his eyes.

"Obviously. It didn't take me long to find out the Hogwarts rumour mill is notoriously inaccurate. If I want to know who to stay away from until this place becomes safe again, I'll need accurate information." Harry snorted.

"That's new," he said. "Usually people just want to know the most spectacular stories, regardless of what might keep them alive. It's really very annoying when they think they know all about me when they really haven't got a clue."

Somehow, after that, a staring match ensued. For a long time Harry focused on the other boy's nearly expressionless face. Then the younger boy smirked.

"I do know all about you. And what I know is accurate. Is that really any better?"

Harry though about it. Leaving aside the Slytherin's knowledge and how he would have acquired it, what would he really feel if everyone knew the truth about his life so far? The answer was easy.

"It is better. I would hate it with everything I've got, but it would be better than the vicious lies going on right now. So what do you think you know?"

"Are you sure you want to hear?" The boy sounded almost robotic as he asked, and Harry wondered what emotion he was trying to hide.

"I won't if you're right," Harry said honestly. "But if you're wrong I want to correct you now, before it's too late. You said you wanted accurate information. I take it that that's because I'm the current 'lead suspect' in the whole Heir of Slytherin business?"

"Yes, but obviously you're not. Or maybe you are, but you are not behind the attacks. You clearly genuinely care about Granger, so I don't understand why people even bother." Harry smiled in relief. _Finally, common sense!_ It was about time.

"You want to hear, then?" Harry swallowed nervously and nodded. He knew he was going to regret it the moment he saw the smug look on the Slytherin's face.

"The bare facts are, of course, that when you were one, a terrorist who called himself 'Lord Voldemort'" Harry already found himself impressed, "broke into your house, killed your parents, gave you that lighting-shaped scar, and hasn't been seen since or, according to the rumour mill, until last year." Harry winced at the reminder. "So that story holds some grain of truth, then. Interesting. Anyway, when Voldemort disappeared, so did you. There have been sightings all over, so I will ignore those, as they can't possibly all be accurate and I won't work with skewed data.

"You grew up in the most boring suburban area one can possibly imagine, maybe even worse than that, judging by your complete amazement at everything even slightly out of the ordinary, even if muggles do it too. Yes, I've been observing you since before today, you already knew that, don't be dull. As I was saying, boring suburb, muggle, obviously, with relatives, because that is the only reason you would not have been adopted by a wizarding family instead; God knows they would all desperately have wanted to. Your relatives neglected and, to an extent, even abused you. They have a child, older than you, and grotesquely fat, whose clothes you've always worn, judging by the way you handle your robes, as if they should be too big and wide, even though they fit perfectly, and your shoes, which are good quality, but very old and not your size - buy new ones, you've got the money - clearly cast-offs from a more favoured child. You're thin, not too thin, but thin enough that one can tell you've never been able to eat as much as you want. You can tell that from your eating habits as well; you cling to basic etiquette, as if pain will follow if you don't, and you always go for high-calorie foods first, but never eat much because your stomach can't handle it. My advise is many small portions every day, if you insist on eating a normal amount.

"Judging by the way you always seem to prefer open spaces, you were often locked up, probably in a dark cupboard, and possibly even slept there, though that has changed since you became aware of magic. Judging by your almost compulsive neatness whenever you are the one who has to clean up the mess, and complete acceptance of others dumping cleaning work on you – yes, I've seen Weasley at the breakfast table, don't bother, someone else cleans up and they don't mind, nor will they notice the difference - you often did housework for your relatives, and have from a very young age. Am. I. Wrong?"

About halfway through the younger boy's speech Harry had started shivering and closed his eyes. That was more than he had ever wanted to hear about his life from a stranger's mouth. He opened his eyes and looked at the boy staring past him, onto the Hogwarts grounds. He breathed out to calm himself.

"You were right. Everything you said was true. I wish it wasn't, of course, but I did ask for it." The Slytherin's perpetually blank face now seemed almost surprised.

"What, no insults? No 'You must have cheated' and threats to my life? That's what I usually get when I do that." Harry smiled tiredly.

"I can imagine why, being reminded of all that was... unpleasant, at the least. But you've told me how you know, so I know you didn't cheat, and if you put it like that it really is obvious to anyone who knows what to look at. I'm more curious how you learned to do _that_. And why would I insult or threaten you? Though that might come from being a victim of both a bit too often," he finished bitterly. The Slytherin sneered.

"Oh come off it," he snapped. Harry stared at him in shock. "Yeah, your life sucks, boo-hoo, honestly! You're twelve, you're not supposed to really get into that puberty angst thing until you're about fifteen. Now I'm not going to say you've had a walk in the park, but you realise that some people actually have reason to be _jealous_ of you, don't you? From what I've read, you will never have to worry about money in your life, you at least have a place to go home to in summer, even if you hate it there and they hate you, _and_ people seem to automatically _like_ you!" The first two points the boy made sounded almost bored, but the last part was hissed as if the boy would much rather have yelled. Suddenly, Harry realised something.

"You're a muggleborn," he said. "Why else would you be worried about the Monster of Slytherin? You're a Slytherin yourself! A muggleborn in Slytherin... And unbelievably intelligent too, if what I just heard is any indication. But bad at social interaction, because in case you hadn't realised, you've been incredibly rude so far." The boy shrugged, and Harry thought he really _hadn't_ realised. "Everyone is going to think you're a bigot by the colour of your tie, all the purebloods who know in your own house have a free pass to be bigoted against _you!_ At the same time, everyone is going to be scared because you're smarter than they, and you don't know how to connect to people after you've accidentally scared them away! You're right, my problems will blow over, but you, well..." He really wasn't sure how to end that sentence without sounding either pitying or smug.

"They don't know I'm muggleborn, and it would be much appreciated if _you_ didn't tell them," the boy glared, rather impressively for such a small child. Harry nodded quickly. "I don't need people I can confide in, I've never had _friends_, and I don't want any. Now, thank you for your time, I'm leaving." With that, he picked up his book, put his wand in his pocket, stood up and started to walk away.

"Wait," Harry called out. The boy didn't turn back, but he did stop walking. "Err, thanks for that. I needed to hear it." The first-year stood still for a moment, then nodded once before walking down the stairs.

Harry listened to the footsteps leaving the Astronomy Tower. Something in him felt relaxed, he thought, staring outside once again. Yeah, he had problems. But he hadn't lost the support of anyone he cared about, or anyone who he believed cared about him. He still had his friends. He blinked, friends who were doing (or pretending to be doing) Potions homework right now. Homework that was due the next day, and he hadn't even started yet! With a muffled curse, he jumped up and rushed down the stairs. If he hurried, maybe skipped dinner, he might get it done in time. If not... He grinned to himself. If not, he could always ask Hermione.

It was only that night, lying in bed, after Hermione had helped him with his homework so he wouldn't have to miss dinner _again_, that he realised he still didn't know the Slytherin's name.

**R&R! If people like this, more conversations are to follow for the next years, so please tell me if you want those. Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I can't believe the response I'm getting for this. Thank you so much, all of you! I was kind of expecting to have to wait at least a week to get a single review, but clearly I was wrong. (Sometimes being wrong is the best feeling in the world...) So now I've suddenly got people waiting for a next chapter! It's exciting in a somewhat nerve-wrecking sort of way, but I'm _so_ soaking up the attention. Cheers!**

**Also, one reviewer said the last chapter gave them the idea that Sherlock was an orphan. This was not my intention. This Sherlock has a highly extraordinary and, well, rich family consisting of his genius parents and brother, who he can go home to and ignore during the holidays. They just happen to all be muggles. I've edited the chapter slightly (one half sentence) and I hope it's clearer now.**

**Like I said in the summary: "Should be canon-compliant." What we read in the books will not change, nor will what we saw in the episodes. As such, Sherlock will not be there to slap sense into Harry when he most needs it and change the HP-universe to be a better place using only cold logical analysis. Sorry!**

**Disclaimer: Affirmative.**

**Massive spoilers for PoA.**

**And finally: on to the story!**

2.

Harry sat alone in the now bare Defence classroom, already missing the presence of the first decent teacher he'd had for that subject so far, and worrying about his godfather, still on the run from the dementors, but hopefully now a safe distance away from the country. Out of nowhere, a clear voice pierced the heavy air.

"Granger has had a Time Turner all year," it sounded. "You used it to free Black, who happens to be innocent, after the real murderer escaped. Just for once the rumour-mill is right and Lupin really is a werewolf. He is also an old friend of your parents', as are Black and the man who framed him, Peter Pettigrew, and you hate that Black had to flee because he's your godfather and, despite his many years in Azkaban, would probably be a better guardian for you than your relatives. Am I wrong?"

Harry stiffened and slowly turned. The previously empty classroom now held a familiar looking dark haired Slytherin. Harry tried to recall where he'd seen the boy before, but came up empty. Thankfully, he could not sense any of the hostility he usually associated with the House of the Snake.

"I'm not, am I?" the boy grinned. "I got everything right, again. And _you,_" he levelled Harry an accusing glare, "don't remember me."

Harry blinked. "Uhm..."

"Please," the boy huffed, "you're an awful liar anyway, so don't even try to bother. Though I suppose it's been a while, so I think I can forgive you for forgetting me. Last year? Astronomy Tower? Anything?" Harry searched his memories of the past year. "Oh, please. Nothing?"

Slowly the event started trickling back into Harry's memory. "Yeah... About a month after the Duelling Club. Everyone thought I was the Heir of Slytherin, and suddenly you showed up and reminded me I still had my friends!" The boy sulked.

"You can rest assured that that was unintentional," he grumbled, then shook his head. "The legal system in the wizarding world is truly awful, isn't it?" Harry couldn't help but agree, but was surprised by what he heard next. "Any idiot could have see Black was not the murderer. I've seen pictures of the aftermath of the explosion..."

"How?" Harry asked. He was sure none had been in the papers, which had only shown Sirius laughing, mad with grief.

"I refuse to answer your question on grounds of self-incrimination," the boy answered with a light smirk, prompting Harry to believe he had most likely broken into the wizarding police department, whatever that may be, and stolen the files. He knew for a fact that if he ever were to find himself in a situation that demanded such skills, the Slytherin would be for whatever reason unavailable, as was the story of Harry's life.

"Anyway, I've seen the pictures, and the explosion would not have killed Pettigrew. Even if it had, it would not have torn his finger clean off, let alone vaporised the rest of him." Harry shuddered at the mental image, but the Slytherin seemed unaffected. "None of the muggles present reported any violence taking place other than the explosion, magical or otherwise, and as such, Pettigrew must have survived. The question that remains is: how did he get away unnoticed?"

Harry debated briefly with himself whether or not to tell the truth, only to realise that no one would believe a thirteen-year old saying that the explanation was illegal animagi, unfortunately, and he wasn't going to give anything on Sirius anyway.

"Pettigrew is a rat animagus, he..." But the younger boy wouldn't let him finish his explanation.

"Ah, of course. A mass-murderer was Weasley's pet rat. Ingenious," he muttered. Harry wanted to protest, (and how had the boy known about Scabbers?) but he thought he was picking up a pattern here: the other boy wasn't taking Wormtail's side, or even calling him intelligent, he was saying it presented a good puzzle, if you could ignore the enormous amount of human suffering. Which he evidently could.

"But this is personal for you, isn't it?" The boy suddenly realised. "This means something more to you than twelve dead muggles over a decade ago." Harry, once again, wanted to protest, this time to say twelve people's death, no matter how long ago, still meant an awful lot to a great many people, but again he kept quiet. Because the second-year was right, it _was_ more personal to him than that. At that moment, the Slytherin seemed to figure it out.

"Pettigrew not only framed your godfather, he's the one who betrayed your parents in the first place. That's what happened, and that's why you hate him: you could've had a home, and he has taken it away from you three times already. He betrayed your parents, framed your godfather, and escaped again yesterday night, probably because of professor Lupin's unfortunately timed transformation into a werewolf. Black is an animagus too," Harry flinched at the other's discovery, "and kept the werewolf away from you, but something happened to get him captured and you, Weasley and Granger into the hospital wing. The dementors. You must've lost consciousness, there must have been a lot of them. When you woke up in the hospital wing, you used Granger's Time Turner to go back, save Black, and I'm assuming the hippogrif Malfoy's been making such a fuss about as well? He's been unbearable since he found out it had escaped." Harry snorted, the mental image quite amusing. Then he just nodded. The other boy had been correct on every count, and actually covered pretty much every major event the past night. Harry was very impressed.

The Gryffindor took a deep breath. "You said you had it all figured out before?" The younger boy nodded proudly. "So why didn't you _tell_ anyone?" Harry spoke angrily. "I know the Ministry was going to be useless, but why not go to one of the teachers?" Before the other could answer, though, Harry caught himself. "Except Snape hates Sirius, Lupin wouldn't have _wanted_ to listen, McGonagall always dismisses her students' worries about things that are not supposed to be their concern, and Dumbledore can be unapproachable." He sighed. "Did you even _try_, or did you already know you needn't bother?"

The younger boy's face betrayed nothing, which could have been a hint as to how upset he was in itself. "As soon as I was completely certain of my findings, I did, in fact, approach the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I got an automated reply, and two weeks later nothing had changed in the hunt for Sirius Black. This repeated itself three times, until I received a warning not to bother the professionals with my 'fanmail' again, proving once and for all that my letters were never read. I then decided to go to a teacher. Professor Snape did, indeed, kick me out the moment I broached the subject. It never occurred to me to speak to Lupin; I obviously knew he had a secret, but was convinced it was merely his lycanthropy, not a past friendship with an alleged mass-murderer. Professor McGonagall sent me away with orders not to worry, or speak to my Head of House if I had to, because the situation was perfectly under control. That was three days ago. Since then I had not found an opportunity to speak to the Headmaster until it became a pointless endeavour as he now already knows."

Harry nodded, more to himself than to the other boy. That sounded about right, considering Harry's own trouble finding help in his previous years. His first stood out especially. McGonagall hadn't listened to him, Ron and Hermione at all when they had told her someone wanted to steal the Philosopher's Stone, and that was _without_ voicing their suspicion that Snape was the thief. The Slytherin had never stood a chance.

"_But,"_ Harry was startled out of his thoughts by the younger boy's business-like tone. "Time Turners, given to a _thirteen-year old._ I don't care if Granger is more mature and responsible than most of our teachers, it's still a fundamentally stupid thing to do. How do I get one?"

Harry smirked. "Oh, just take every single course offered, and probably also be an overall model student, which, for some reason, I don't think _you_ would be very good at." A pointed look followed that statement. "Also, I think that question right there proves just fine that _you_ are not fit to get one." The boy opened his mouth to retort, but Harry suddenly remembered something else. "Wait, before I forget to ask, again..."

"Yes? And please don't waste my time, Potter."

"You're the one who started talking, y'know, and by the way, that, right there," Harry replied. "What's your name?"

The surprised silence lasted for all of half a second, but it was definitely there. As was the boy's quietly muttered answer. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, then smirked. "I suppose society dictates I now politely ask your name as well?" He raised his eyebrows challengingly, and Harry grinned back.

"Yes, I suppose it does, doesn't it?" he said idly. "Rather pointless in this case, of course, but it would be nice to meet someone who doesn't recognise me on sight for once."

Sherlock snorted. "I thought you remembered, we've had this conversation before. You're not going to go all whiny on me, you understand? I was hoping for entertainment, not angst-filled dribble from a prepubescent boy. No, for God's sake, don't, you know it's true. You were like this last year as well and I don't need to hear it again."

Harry felt he should probably be feeling highly offended at that moment, but he really couldn't be bothered. "You do realise a Time Turner would automatically doom you to a life of constant repetition of the very worst kind, don't you? Like a soap that keeps only showing re-runs."

Sherlock scrunched up his face in disgust, clearly getting where Harry was coming from. "That's entirely different, though!" he defended himself. "I would get to see a situation from different angles, and not have to pay attention to the same thing twice, because reality has _so many_ different layers. And I imagine using it to attend multiple classes at once could be considered an advantage," he finished grudgingly.

"Yeah," Harry shrugged. "Or you could pull untraceable pranks."

"Oh, don't be dull, Potter." The boy in question glared. "If someone who the Hogwarts staff are aware has access to a a Time Turner were to 'pull untraceable pranks' they would immediately be the prime suspect. It would be a good way to frame such a person, though. Simply pull an untraceable prank." Sherlock sounded far too thoughtful at that last part, Harry thought, and he got the uncomfortable feeling the younger boy was perfectly capable of doing just that.

Quickly trying to distract Sherlock from his apparent train of thought, he asked: "So, if not for pranks or attending classes, what would you want to use a Time Turner for?"

The look he received in reply was like an unholy mix between the Weasley Twins anticipating a good prank, and Hermione Granger on a crusade. It may also have contained a hint of disparaging amusement at Harry's very obvious change of subject. However, Sherlock's desire to talk soon won out.

"Oh, my dear Harry," he said, eyes shining._ "Experiments!_ Can you imagine, full time access to a time travel device! The things I could discover... Of course, there'll be restrictions, and I will have to assume they are there as a fair result of trial and error, but just think! I could measure magical, physical and chemical reactions to one object meeting itself at a different point in its own timeline, I could find out how effective it is to send oneself notes from the future, I could test how many times one can duplicate oneself with one Time Turner, I could study the nature of time! _Time,_ Harry! Oh, the possibilities are inexhaustible. How bad would it be, taking every course? I'm certain I can think up some valid arguments to change my choice of electives even now. Would it be worth it?"

Harry had to smile at the other's almost child-like enthusiasm. He hadn't missed the fact that Sherlock had switched from calling him 'Potter' to 'Harry' when talking about something he was passionate about, and he couldn't help but be impressed by the Slytherin's intelligence. Somehow, over the course of the last half-minute, some of Harry's scepticism had faded and he had somehow grown attached to Sherlock. Not that he'd ever tell the boy that, of course.

"Well," he said, still smiling, "from your enthusiasm just now I'd say almost no price would be too high." Sherlock's face suddenly blanked out completely, showing no life whatsoever. It seemed to Harry almost as if he was ashamed of his outburst, and he realised it would be very hard to get most people interested in Sherlock's favourite subjects. He'd probably often been put down for his intelligence. Harry recalled something similar happening to him, though at a much smaller scale, as the Dursleys had always made sure he was too afraid to get better grades at school than Dudley. Unsure of how to reassure the other boy, or if he even wanted to be reassured, Harry decided to start listing.

"Right, well, I've got Divination and Care for Magical Creatures. Divination is awful, the teacher predicts at least one student's death each year, but it's an easy pass, probably even more so with your observational skills. Care for Magical Creatures can be a bit dangerous, but if you actually listen to what the teacher says it's not too bad. I know Hagrid doesn't appear to be very... intellectual," Sherlock snorted, clearly remembering the big man who had led him to the boats when he'd arrived for his first year, "but when it's about animals he really knows what he's talking about.

"Then there's Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Muggle Studies. Hermione says she loves Arithmancy, it's a lot like using maths for practical magic, apparently. Ancient Runes seems to be the magical equivalent of Latin or Ancient Greek in the muggle world, except, again, that it's useful for magic. Hermione has complained a bit about Muggle Studies, though. She says she knows more about muggles than their teacher. Of course, she _is_ muggleborn herself, but the point still stands.

"Just, Sherlock..." Harry hesitated, then soldiered on. "See, Hermione wore herself out this year trying to get perfect marks for _everything_, and that just _really _didn't work. But if you only want the Time Turner, just, _please_ don't do more than you must to not be kicked out of a class. _If_ you're going for it, of course." Harry finished. Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Yes," he said, sounding almost surprised at this decision. "Yes, I think I will. Thank you... Harry. You have been most informative." Harry frowned.

"What, you mean no one told you any of that before?" he questioned. "None of the older students in your house? None of the prefects? Snape? I understand you can't ask your family, if they're muggles, but, well, I would've thought..."

Yes, well, _they_ would've thought that the Freak can figure things out on his own just fine," Sherlock interrupted bitterly. "They're right, of course," he quickly added, unaffected mask, because it was definitely a mask, right back in place, "but a more direct source of information is often appreciated."

Harry frowned, remembering his earlier conclusion that the Slytherin was not very well loved in his own House or year. _Freak,_ Sherlock said he was called, and it reminded Harry unpleasantly of his life with the Dursleys. '_They're right, of course_'. When was the last time Sherlock had felt comfortable relying on anyone else? And just how had that person become Harry, anyway?

His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock himself. "What surprises _me_," he said, "is that you don't seem too bothered with me getting such a powerful and potentially dangerous artefact. How exactly does that work?"

"Well, I've been known to be a stereotypical Gryffindor in literally every aspect of my personality, and as such am incapable of rational thought or appropriate caution." Harry deadpanned. "What's your excuse?"

Sherlock laughed. Actually _laughed._ "Oh, since I'm a thirteen-year old outcast, I, of _course,_ secretly desperately seek the approval of authority figures in my life." Yeah right. "Or maybe I've just seen you break the rules one time too many, yourself. Actually, the reason I'm talking to you might be that you are _not_ a stereotypical Gryffindor. For one, you are marginally less stupid." Harry let that comment pass with a mild glare.

"Gryffindors also tend to be prejudiced and dreadfully full of themselves, while you are clearly neither. And no, I don't mean blood status," he said when Harry tried to protest the 'prejudiced' part. "You're the only Gryffindor I've met so far who is actually willing to look past the colour of my tie. Most Gryffindors rarely look past the first impression."_ And would've cursed me for my rudeness and feared my intelligence from the moment they met me_, he didn't say, but Harry could read it in his silvery eyes.

"Have you ever figured out _why_ my aunt and uncle hate me so much?" Sherlock shook his head. "It's because I'm magical. That's all there is to it. Actually, it isn't, it's because I'm different, and I don't fit in their perfectly mundane lives, mostly because I'm magical. They are honestly as bad as the Malfoys, just on the muggle side of things; prejudiced against wizards instead of muggles. Being put down for being different all your life apparently does a great job of teaching you how to be tolerant." Sherlock's eyes had widened with the explanation, and Harry imagined the word _obvious_ shot through the younger boy's mind. Then Sherlock frowned.

For a moment Harry thought he was going to get a consolation. An 'I'm so sorry that happened to you.' He wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, but it was what people always said. But Sherlock didn't do meaningless formalities. And he didn't seem to do sentiment, either. Still, at the moment he looked so... _sympathetic,_ for want of a better word. For a moment, he genuinely seemed to care. When his mouth opened, Harry was curious what would come out.

"Inform the authorities," he said, in a tone of voice that could best be described as _Well duh_. "Your relatives would lose custody of you, no doubt. I've said before that any wizarding family would fall over itself for a chance to take you in. Take the Weasleys, you could stay there. You could even ask Granger if you can stay with her over the summer holidays. There is no need to even go back to an abusive household at all."

Practical advice. Of course, a perfectly logical reaction. Some might consider his bluntness cold, but was it really? It was more likely to actually do anything than a meaningless 'I'm sorry'. Sherlock seemed to deliberately distance himself, so the fact that he tried to help at all must mean a lot on its own. Or maybe Harry was just completely misreading the situation, but he didn't think so. He was sure Sherlock felt as much as anyone else, but merely expressed it differently, causing people to think he didn't feel normally. Add a boarding school full of teenagers to the mix, and suddenly pretending he didn't feel at all might indeed seem like the only way out. _Inform the authorities._ Harry sighed.

"Can't prove anything now. I've got an actual bedroom, I can't hide all my schoolbooks just so Social Services can come snoop around, and the whole neighbourhood will testify that I'm a criminal anyway. And the Ministry of Magic can't actually interfere with muggle households, even if it has magical children. Hermione looked it up."

Sherlock stared at him, then said very slowly: "You are _Harry Potter._ The Ministry will interfere whether they are allowed to or not. And whether you want them to or not. Use that." Harry shook his head.

"No! I refuse to rely on my fame like that, and I will not have an unfair advantage because my parents were murdered. I don't want to call in favours from people who owe me nothing just because I'm famous, it would make the worst kind of rumours going around here true! No Sherlock, it's not happening."

Sherlock glared at him for a bit, clearly disagreeing with Harry's standpoint, but then seemed to let it go. "Idiot." Well, mostly. A somewhat awkward silence followed.

After maybe a minute, during which neither could really think of anything more to say, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Very well, then. I ought to go speak professor Snape, now, to see if I can add the extra electives to my curriculum. I'll just say I've been bored these past two years and need more stimulation, which has the advantage of being accurate as well as innocent and a compelling argument; no one likes me when I'm bored." Harry tried to imagine _that_ brain with nothing to do and shuddered, suddenly glad he and Sherlock did not share a common room. "Good day, Harry."

"Yeah. Bye Sherlock, good luck!" The younger boy nodded, and turned to leave. Only to immediately turn back and face Harry again. "By the way, I don't think I had said this yet, but I promise I won't breathe a word about Sirius Black to anyone of whom I am not positive that they already know. Goodbye."

He turned again and stalked off. "Thanks!" Harry called after him. He was not expecting a reply, and none came. Harry scratched his scalp. Somehow, with all that he'd learned that day, the boy from the Astronomy Tower was even more of a mystery now than he had been after the first time they'd met.

**More chapters to come, R&R, and please do nitpick my writing!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: check!**

**Spoilers for GoF.**

**You've waited long enough. Get reading!**

3.

"Sherlock."

There was no immediate reaction. Instead, the Slytherin kept walking and ducked into an empty classroom the first chance he got. Harry quickly followed.

"Don't talk to me in public, Harry," the younger boy said disparagingly. "People will think you're consorting with 'Those slimy Slytherins' and your reputation really can't take that right now." Harry's protest died in his throat at the glare Sherlock sent him. Stupid though it was, the Slytherin was right. With a groan, Harry tiredly rubbed his eyes. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath. "First Task, I presume. What do you know so far?"

Right. Reason for seeking out a Slytherin genius in the first place. Panic. "Dragons. The First Task is dragons, Sherlock! How am I supposed to defeat a dragon? Hermione says I'll most likely only have to get _past_ one, but it's a bloody _dragon!_ I don't know how to even begin to work this out! Sirius told me there's a simple spell I could use to survive this, but he got cut off before he could tell me what and I haven't been able to find anything yet! I'm doomed..." He tried not to be put off by how apathetic Sherlock looked about all of that. The younger boy coolly gazed at him, his eyes today a mixture of the silver and green of his Slytherin tie.

"I'm afraid I can't help you as dragons are hardly my speciality. I could offer to help you cheat, but I'm sure you wouldn't hear of it. Don't worry, they will hardly let you die through any of the more obvious ways. I would, however, strongly advise you to keep an eye out for sniper spells to your back during the Tasks. The security against the dragons will be airtight, but that means they might have overlooked something else, practically everybody's an idiot after all, and I doubt very much that whoever entered you in the Tournament did so with the purest of goals." Sherlock's voice sounded matter-of-fact and a bit bored, and while it probably shouldn't be so calming, it did the job for Harry. He let out a shaky laugh.

"Yeah, that's great," he muttered, shaking his head. "They won't let the dragons kill me, but I might just get assassinated anyway. Brilliant." He sighed in despair. "Thanks for believing I didn't put my name in, by the way."

"As if you ever would," Sherlock snorted. "Not without telling your friends and offering them a chance as well." Barely hidden contempt was etched on his face. Harry ignored it. "Besides, I saw your face when Dumbledore read out your name, and you're not that good an actor," Sherlock admitted. "Weasley is letting his jealousy blind him, but I'm sure he'll come around eventually, if you're willing to forgive him. Black will be fine, don't worry, he hasn't been found yet so he must be doing an adequate job of staying hidden. Dumledore will be there during the Tasks, has to be as he is a member of the jury, so you should worry about being transported away to where he can't help you rather than immediately killed, and keep in mind that there will be two other Tasks as well so chances are you will be left alone during the first. Now that we have that out of the way, could you _please_ snap out of it? I can't stand your hysterics."

Harry was pretty sure 'hysterics' was not an appropriate name to his state of mind anymore, but habitually shrugged it off, as this was Sherlock and a verbal slap to the face was his way of saying 'I don't know how to deal with this'. He also didn't bother asking how Sherlock had known half of those things. Harry shook his head again, this time in order to clear it up, and, purely out of curiosity, asked: "So, anyway, how _were_ you going to help me cheat?"

Sherlock smiled tightly, as if he'd much rather be grinning until his face split in half. "I could tell you now how you're going to get through it. I'm taking Divination, you see."

Sherlock took Divination. Sherlock claimed he could tell Harry about the future. That could only mean one thing, and it was not that the younger boy had suddenly developed an Inner Eye.

"You did it?" Harry exclaimed, "You actually talked Snape into giving you... Ahum," he tried to compose himself. "Very sorry. Another class? How on earth can you manage them all? Where do you find the _time?_"

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, of course. Very subtle, Harry." Harry grinned back unrepentantly, grateful for the distraction. "But you're correct," Sherlock continued, "I've been finding notes to myself all over the castle _before_ I even write them. It's a marvellous opportunity for research and more than worth the hassle of my classmates calling me a psychopath when I don't care someone 'will not be with us for much longer', according to Trelawney. Thank God McGonagall cleared that one up."

Harry rolled his eyes and nodded emphatically. He, himself, was still grateful for the stern witch's reassurance. "Last year _I_ was going to die. Still am, actually." Sherlock's raised eyebrow looked about as sympathetic about this as Harry had expected. "McGonagall told me that I looked perfectly fine to her, but if I were to die unexpectedly, I 'need not hand in my homework'." He grinned. "It's a promise I hope I won't be keeping her to anytime soon."

Sherlock nodded. "I wasn't there for Creevey's Transfiguration class afterwards, but McGonagall did tell us not to worry, and gave Sytherin five points when I explained to the rest of the class exactly why Divination is so wildly inaccurate. I lost three of those points for rudeness, of course, and another one for insulting a fellow student." He grinned. "Which means I still won Slytherin one point, as she somehow failed to notice how I called Trelawney a morbid, fraudulent drunk with an inferiority complex."

"Perhaps she would've if your description had been any less accurate," Harry said mock-thoughtfully. "Or obvious, for that matter. Although, you're one to talk about morbidity. And where did the 'inferiority complex' comment come from?"

"Well, she obviously tries too hard to be a seer because she has such a low self-image that it's the only thing about herself that she imagines people might appreciate about her." Pale green eyes met Harry's brighter ones and the older boy shivered, suddenly feeling slightly guilty for the way he's always thought of his Divination teacher. It was strange to think she might have an actual reason for being unbearable. Though she still shouldn't take it out on her students, he resolved.

"On that very note," Sherlock steamrolled on, "You know you could appreciate Granger's willingness to help you research a bit more. It gives her a sense of self-worth, which might have the added benefit of stopping her from compulsively spewing her textbooks all over people unaske-" "-Sherlock!"

Confused silver-green eyes stared out at Harry, who sighed. "Don't insult people's friends, Sherlock. Especially not mine, I don't deal with it well. You could have left it at 'appreciate her a bit more' and nothing would have been wrong. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, looking for all the world like he had, indeed, got it. Harry resolved to try not to snap when the younger boy inevitably repeated the mistake.

"You won't find anything useful in the restricted part of the library." Harry blinked at the sudden, seemingly unconnected statement, before remembering the reason he had sought Sherlock out in the first place. _Again._ It seemed he was developing a habit of forgetting his primary goals today. He blamed the lack of sleep.

"Right. Spells, dragons. Why nothing in the restricted part? You'd think that's where the unusual stuff is, and I can't think of anything usual to bring down a dragon." Sherlock's ensuing exasperation, however annoying, was better than the awkward moment from before. It was still annoying though.

"Obviously," he started, in his usual tone of voice (read: 'superior as all hell'), "there is a reason why the restricted section is restricted. It contains _restricted _information, mostly dark magic, dangerous magic, and magic that no normal student, let alone a barely exceptional fourth year," Harry valiantly fought to not take offence, "could possibly hope to accomplish. If you decide to use that fancy cloak of yours, yes, I deduced that, your father's, wasn't it? It's really not that difficult, he and Black have _only one_ of Filch's drawers of their own, _if_ you use your invisibility cloak to rummage around in the restricted section, not only will you be caught regardless, you will lose a night's sleep and still have no chance of finding anything useful."

Harry remembered Christmas of his first year and sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right, too." Maybe he'd run into some kind of magical artefact that would prove invaluable later on? Probably not, though. Not really worth the risk. "So what do you suggest?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor, thinking. "Find out what previous Triwizard tasks entailed, if there have been dragons before, what the champions had to do and how they did it. It might give you a hint. Research dragons, obviously. There is no point to learning spells to use against a dragon if you don't know what might have an effect. And for God's sake," he looked up, silver-green eyes latching on to Harry's. "Don't be afraid to ask for help. You are fourteen, your opponents are each seventeen or eighteen, and the tasks are designed for them. There is no shame in asking for assistance and I will not have you lose because you are bullheaded and prideful in addition to an idiot." Harry reminded himself that Sherlock was giving him genuinely good, if hypocritical, advise here, and did not take offence. "Hagrid knows about dragons, ask him. Granger can research, ask her. The Weasley twins, however undisciplined, are obviously skilled when they deign to apply themselves, and are good for taking Malfoy down a peg or two. Please ask them about that, you'll be doing everyone a favour."

Harry smiled tiredly. "Yes, that all makes a lot of sense. Have the twins prank Malfoy, good for morale. Not sure asking Hagrid is the best idea, though, he likes dragons too much. He'd never want any of them to get hurt. Sherlock?

"Yes, Harry?" Sherlock's face was entirely unreadable.

"About asking for help..." he continued. A raised eyebrow in return.

"Hmmm?" Was that smugness? Of course it was smugness. Bloody snake.

"Could I borrow your time turner to finally get a good night's sleep? Unlike some, _I_ can't stay awake for days at the time to find the solution to a problem, and I'd rather not be ill on the day of the task. But I can't afford to waste much research time, either."

Sherlock's smile was entirely unlike him, and did an overall terrible job of convincing Harry that the Slytherin had not been planning to hand Harry his time turner from the very beginning. "I want it back when I walk out of this classroom a minute after you. You know the rules, no doubt Granger has told you, after all. Please do avoid her, by the way, I do not want anyone else knowing I have this." He pulled the time turner out from under his robes and handed it to Harry. "Remember, you are using it to get sleep. I do not trust your planning abilities to let you get away with anything more intensive," Sherlock sneered slightly. This time Harry was too grateful to get angry, and he liked to think that underneath that sneer there was a certain fondness. It just didn't look very menacing.

He put the thin golden chain around his neck and took the time turner in his hand. "Thank you, Sherlock. Really, thank you so much." The younger boy just nodded awkwardly. "I've got a map of the school" Harry continued. "It shows where everyone is, so I should be able to avoid running into myself. I'll just... Go to bed, go back a couple of hours, set my alarm for before I came in, and drop this off at the door about..." He checked his watch. "Seventeen past four pm. Will that do?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, that should be fine. Good..." he hesitated for a moment, and finally seemed to settle on "Morning. Sleep well."

"Thank you, Sherlock. It'll be back." Harry nodded once, and turned towards the door. For some reason he felt ridiculously awkward about the whole ordeal. He opened the door and was about to leave when Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"Harry, if you ever lose too much sleep again, you can simply ask to borrow it. You will not be beaten by the quidditch sensation, nor the veela, nor the Hufflepuff. Understood?" Harry nodded, oddly moved, but as he opened his mouth to say 'Thank you' again, Sherlock glared at him.

"Now leave," he snapped, "I have somewhere to be and I want that back. _Bye bye!_" And who'd have thought such a cheerful salute could sound so disparaging? Harry laughed softly.

"Bye, Sherlock," He said. He walked out the classroom, closed the door behind him, and walked back to the Gryffindor tower, determinedly ignoring what sounded like someone breathing harshly behind a tapestry. When he fell asleep he realised that he had maybe set his alarm clock a bit late, and when he was running toward the classroom wherein he _was currently speaking_ with Sherlock, he noticed the tapestry behind which he'd heard someone breathing. Panting, he ducked behind it, only just in time as he could hear his own footsteps pause for a second, before picking up their pace.

And when the first task rolled around, he thought he looked the most well-rested out of the four of them.

**A/N: Three things:**

**1. I'm sorry.**

**2. Writer's block. Blame BOP.**

**3. I'm so sorry.**

Now that I've said my part, please don't crucio me, tremors make it hard to type and pain is distracting. Constructive criticism is, as always, appreciated. Flames are kinda funny. Cheers!


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